The Wages of Sin
by Ta'er Sagheer
Summary: Goodbyes hurt the most when people leave without saying them. -Anonymous


_A/N: First and foremost, I would like to thank my amazing beta reader,** Katydidit**. Without her this fic wouldn't have been possible. I would also like to point out that I'm not a doctor, nor am I in medical school, so if anyone actually is, please don't rip me a new one if you notice the differential scene doesn't make much sense (I did try to look things up! I promise!) Oh, one more thing. I don't know who wrote the poem, it was listed as "Anonymous".  
_

* * *

"_Okay_," House announced, his cane firmly planted onto the carpet. He gestured toward the whiteboard no one was looking at. "We went from lethargy and aching muscles and joints to shortness of breath, and a cough. Now we need to find out why."

Taub sighed quietly and fiddled with a pen, choosing to ignore the collective look of despair around the table. He expected Foreman to be the first to answer, but even he seemed to be lost in thought.

Shaking his head and laying the pen down, he bit back an annoyed snort and said, "Bronchiectasis? We start him on steroids, see if he responds."

House raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the board, studying it intently.

"Are we— " he paused, pointing one finger over the other. "Talking about the same patient? Because the one I'm talking about isn't a fifty year old _chain smoker_."

Taub paused, his brow low, face warm with embarrassment. He hadn't expected to be the only person throwing things out there, ordinarily taking the dive got the ball rolling. Today it did not.

"It fits," he defended. He pulled himself out of a slump and sat up straight, chancing a glance around the table for confirmation. "It explains the shortness of breath, _and_ the cough."

"So does _lung cancer_," House retorted, leaning heavily into his cane. "But neither explain the aching muscles and joints."

"What if they aren't related? Aching muscles and joints can be explained by..." he hiked his shoulders. "Not stretching properly, sleeping in a strange position,_ aging_. It could be a number of things."

"It's not bronchiectasis." House sighed. "Anyone_ else_ have any idea what it could be?"

"House is right," Thirteen murmured. "It doesn't fit."

Taub sighed and rubbed his forehead, sinking into his lab coat.

Thirteen, though adamant that the blame wasn't on them, sat with her arms wrapped around herself, eyes red-rimmed. Foreman was at the rear of the table, hand cupping his chin, staring at nothing.

"_Foreman._" The harsh voice pulled Taub out of his thoughts, made him glad he'd already shared.

"I still think we should hand this case off," Foreman said quietly, expanding his thoughts to the group. He held Thirteen's gaze for a moment, then looked away. "I think we're all a little distracted. _A lot_... has happened recently, and I just feel like—"

Houses expression suddenly darkened. He jerked his head toward the door. "Then_ stop wasting my time_ and take the leave Cuddy offered."

Foreman shot House a nasty glare.

Taub cleared his throat.

House sighed irritably and banged his cane on the floor, dropping his head, his cheeks full of air. His eyebrows waggled up and down as he released the air. "Look, either do your job, or go home."

No one felt comfortable, that Taub got, but he couldn't understand why Foreman and Thirteen were letting things get to them this much. There was a time and place for grief, and a hospital, where a patient's life could be hanging in the balance, was not one. Kutner would have understood that.

Thirteen shifted in her chair, fidgeting with her fingers.

"Kutner's_ dead_," House announced loudly. "Yeah, it sucks, but people die. Deal with it. Less moping, more thinking."

Thirteen sucked in a breath and stretched her arms out across the table, admitting defeat. "No obstructions in the airway, ESR wasn't raised—no inflammation."

"No infections," Foreman finally said. "Spirometry and methacholine test came back negative, it's not asthma."

"Could be... pulmonary fibrosis?" Thirteen offered.

Taub glanced up from the table, raising an eyebrow. "You think it's TB? It could just as easily be an abscess on the lungs," he added.

"X-ray came back negative," Foreman reminded him.

House shrugged. "So do it again. Maybe we missed something. Wouldn't be the first time."

"The next thing we should do is a lung biopsy," Foreman said.

"Good," House said. He waved his hand around as he limped toward the exit. "Go. Test. Learn. Page me when you get the results."

"Wait!" Thirteen called after him. "Where are you going?"

He rubbed at his leg and scowled. "I need to find Wilson."

Taub was the last to leave the office, opting to take the long way to the lab. He would rerun tests while Foreman and Thirteen dealt with the patient. He needed to be alone.

*** * ***

Someone pushed through the lab doors, causing Taub to look up from his work. He greeted Thirteen with a small, confused smile.

"Hi," he said calmly.

"Hi." She returned the smile.

He waited, eyes retreating back to his samples, silently willing her to leave.

"What are you doing?" he finally asked.

She wet her lips. "Foreman's busy with the patient, House is... Bugging Wilson," she explained with a shrug. "I thought you could use some help."

"Thanks," he said, more bitterly than he'd intended, "but I don't really need any help."

Thirteen shifted uneasily, her head jerking in wounded surprise.

"...Okay," she finally said, turning to leave.

Taub, berating himself for how he handled that, was just turning back to his samples when he realized he hadn't heard the door swing shut. He sighed, a sound which was echoed by Thirteen. When he finally looked back up at her, she was hovering near the door, her head low. His stomach rolled.

"Was there something else?" he asked.

"Actually," she sucked in a breath and spun around, ponytail landing over her shoulder, "Yeah. There was."

Taub's eyebrows rose and he waited for her to continue, his hands folded politely in his lap.

"I didn't see you at Kutner's funeral," she said shortly.

He stared at her blankly.

"Probably because I didn't _attend_ Kutner's funeral."

He could see it coming from a mile away, the way her eyes wrinkled and her mouth puckered, trying to form words but failing. He bit his lip and tilted his head, hoping she would take a hint.

Her lips became a thin line, and she nodded, looking down. She sniffed lightly and slid her hand into her pocket, presenting him with a small white card, about the size of her palm.

"I know you didn't come for a reason," she softly acknowledged, "but I thought you might want this. Sooner or later, you're going to have to deal with this."

With that, she turned and left.

Taub pocketed the card without looking at it, and returned to his work.

*** * ***

He arrived home, late, and had a quiet dinner with his wife. They watched television together after, wrapped in each others arms, so they wouldn't have to look at one another.

By midnight, he was alone, drink in hand. He closed his eyes.

'_Well, it's people like me who don't do it. When your life sucks from the beginning, nowhere to go but up.'_

He snorted in disbelief, shaking his head.

"You moron," he mumbled miserably.

No note, no clues—nothing but brain matter and skull fragments and blood everywhere. Such an important, personal decision, leaving everyone who ever gave a crap a gigantic mess to clean up. The funeral, his car, his apartment, his belongings, his bills— those burdens now fell onto his parents.

So _stupid_. Stupid and sad and unbelievably selfish.

He scanned the darkness again, trying to shake the thoughts from his mind, when he saw it: On the coffee table before him was the card Thirteen had given him in the lab. He glared accusingly at it. He couldn't remember how it had gotten there, sure he'd left it in the pocket of his lab coat.

He sighed.

If he read what was on that card, he would have to face Kutner's death, instead of just living around it. He would have to deal with it, just like everyone else. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that, or if he ever would be.

He tossed back another drink, setting the empty glass down and reaching for the card before his mind had a chance to register the act. He turned it over in his hand, inspecting the fancy golden script.

_In Memory of_

_Lawrence Kutner_

_October 9, 1981_

_March 2, 2009_

He was surprised not to have a wave of guilt and anguish crash over him. He felt nothing, at first, only thought that he'd never called Kutner by his first name before.

His eyes eventually traveled downward.

_Don't grieve for me, for now I'm free_

_I'm following the path God laid for me._

_I took his hand when I heard him call_

_I turned my back and left it all._

_I could not stay another day._

_To laugh, to love, to work or play._

He would keep reading. He had to. He at least owed Kutner that.

_Tasks left undone must stay that way,_

_I found that peace at close of day._

_If my parting has left a void,_

_Then fill it with remembered joy._

While he summoned up the courage to read on, he told himself he was admiring the symbol on the back of the card. He didn't know what it was, but it was definitely Hindu.

_A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss,_

_Ah yes, these things I too will miss._

_Be not burdened with times of sorrow,_

_I wish you sunshine of tomorrow._

_My life's been full, I've savored much,_

_Good friends, good times,_

_a loved one's touch._

He stretched his neck, uncomfortable, searching for a diversion.

He told himself that Kutner was dead, gone; buried or otherwise, but there was something that had been bothering him for days. He wondered, briefly, if Heaven and Hell and Life after Death were possible, chastising himself the entire time. If it were all true, he thought sadly, Kutner would be denied access to the afterlife. He would wander in this world, alone, forever.

The thought haunted him, flickering in the back of his mind like a dying candle.

_Perhaps my time seemed all too brief;_

_Don't lengthen it now with undue grief._

_Lift up your hearts and share with me,_

_God wanted me now;_

_He set me free._

When he regained his voice, he quietly asked, "Why didn't you say anything?"

He rubbed his thumb over the edge of the card, which had gotten bent while in his pocket, and sighed deeply. Bowing his head, he offered a quick prayer, stumbling over the words through tears.

When he was numb to the core, he left the card face down on the coffee table and he crawled into bed alongside his wife. He watched her chest rise and fall with each breath, ran his fingers through her hair.

He didn't sleep.


End file.
